My eyes burn from staring at a blank page.
The black cursor taunting me as it blinks.
Why do I still write when it always stinks.
Fighting with the words in a batting cage.
I will not quit from adolescent rage.
I will work until there are no more kinks.
Pushing harder while the fear inside shrinks.
I feel my heart beat against my rib cage.
The perseverance is getting stronger.
The longer it gets the more it makes sense.
I feel better about my writing now.
I will not judge myself any longer.
Writing about feelings can be intense.
I am done, what do you think, should I bow?